


The Science of Hand Washing

by unswiv



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Drinking, Mild Gore, Very Very Mild, basically if u like light angst and drunk bants this is the fic for you, clubs, it's an au but nothing specific they just don't know each other, just like talking ab bruises and yeah it's pretty tame okay, some kinda au??, woo here we go, wow i'm really bad at tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unswiv/pseuds/unswiv
Summary: Phil has to call a taxi for some dude (that's Dan lmao) at a club and it's a lot (not much like a little) more interesting than it sounds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so, I posted this on a really old account like 2 years ago (maybe 3 idk it was A WHILE AGO) and i wanted to get back into ao3 and figured that i'd put this on my new account bc it's fire and it would've just sat on my desktop anyway. it's in chapters bc i low key don't like the other parts to it and wanna edit them before putting them back up, but the updates should only be a day or two apart just bully me if i don't do it and you want to finish the story for some reason.  
> oh yeah it's in Phil pov (the only acceptable pov) just in case there was any confusion.

It's not until a bouncer comes up to me and asks if I'm still alive that I realize I've fallen asleep at some club again. I've no idea where any of my friends went, but they're not really my friends if they're willing to leave me passed out at our booth for the third Friday in a row, so it doesn't really matter. I confirm to this burly man that I am not, in fact, dead, and start off for the washroom where it's quieter and I can call one of the 'friends' that left to give me a ride back to my flat. It's always an option to get a taxi, but if I fall asleep in a taxi, I could theoretically end up in Austria. Nothing against Austria, I'd just prefer to be awake and consensual when I'm in a taxi cab that floats over into Europe.  
The thought of a car sputtering through the water because the driver has no clue where to go is so funny to me that it's completely obvious that I'm drunk. No— more than that.  
I'm so much more than that.  
I turn on the tap and begin washing my hands, having set the phone on the side until I have the chance to get rid of the stickiness. I've spaced out after a few seconds, so caught up in the science of hand washing that I fail to notice a figure approaching me until, "hey-"  
Drunk and defensive, I cut them off with a reflexive backhand that sends this figure to the floor and my phone into the sink. "Oh god," I pull my phone out as quickly as I can before drying my hands and getting down to help the boy I've just literally stunned. He's got deeply side parted dark curls and the eyes to match, though it's hard to see much of the colour as his pupils have dilated immensely. His skin is slightly tanned, a flawless borderline golden that I could only dream of achieving. I remind myself that it's June and I've no excuse not to be outside during the day, only to quickly avert my attention back to him and emit the most cliche gasp ever to have taken place off of a television screen. "Oh my god."  
"What?" He worriedly asks, moving away as I reach out to touch him.  
I move my fingers towards the swollen aubergine skin just below his right eye for the half second that he lets me, wondering if it's possible for someone to bruise that much that fast. "I think I-"  
"No," he interrupts, panic lacing his voice. "That wasn't you. I got in a fight earlier and- stop." This boy pushes my hand back, fully against the wall under the hand dryer then. "It's fine, but-"  
"That's not fine." I tell him. "That's really bad."  
"Really bad?" He asks. "Or are you just really drunk?"  
Both. "It's really bad."  
"Fuck," He pulls his knees close quickly and covers his face with his hands. "Fuck! This is the worst night of my life!"  
I pause for a second, thinking of a way to respond. "Wanna talk about it?"  
He shakes his head as sobs begin to wrack his shoulders. "I wanna go ho-ome."  
"Aww," I pull his hands from his face, having no sense of boundaries, and notice the fact that he looks sixteen at very most. Quickly, I drop my voice to a whisper. "Are you allowed to be here?"  
This boy nods. "I turned eighteen yesterday."  
I gasp. "Happy birthday!"  
"Shh!" He pulls his hands back from me, using his index fingers to hush me. "Listen, I need help, okay? My ride home just beat the piss out of me and all my friends are gone."  
I process it for a second. "You want me to help you?"  
"If you're coherent enough."  
"I'm fine!"  
He eyes me skeptically.  
"I'm fine, just a little tipsy."  
"You're sitting on the bathroom floor talking to someone you've never met."  
I shrug and take my phone from the sink. "So are you."  
"I don't think I can stand up."  
"Touché, little angry boy." I study the screen of my phone, trying to remember how to use it well enough to call him a taxi. It still works, thankfully, but I'll put it in rice when I get home just to be safe.  
"Little angry boy?" He asks. "Is that what you're calling me?"  
I glance back up at this little angry boy. "What do you want me to call you?"  
"Dan would be fine."  
"Can I just shorten that to 'Dan'?"  
He stares at me for a moment.  
"Instead of-"  
"Yes, that's fine."  
"Great!" I look back at my phone. "I'm Phil, just so you know."  
Dan nods, then exhales.  
"You okay?"  
He's quiet, commanding my attention back. His dark, dilated eyes are fixed at some spot on the floor, darting quickly back and forth.  
"Dan?"  
"Yeah?" His eyes snap back to me.  
"Are you okay?"  
"Mm-hmm,"  
I'm not buying it. "Um, when you said that someone 'beat the piss out of you', what does that mean exactly?"  
"Everything hurts and I think I might have head trauma."  
Neither of us talk for a good few seconds, just stare at each other. "Should I call 999, then?"  
"It's not that bad." He tries. "A taxi is fine."  
"You sure?"  
He goes quiet again, giving me this sudden fear that he's about to fall out. "...yeah."  
I look him over, finding his arms bruised, his jeans torn, and his shoes bloody all while that eye continues to get worse. "Okay," I start back in. "But if you pass out, I'm calling 999, deal?"  
"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooo here i am begging for attention again  
> i didn't realize how short these chapters were until i looked at them again. Maybe i should have just posted it as one but TOO LATE NOW.  
> last chap tomorrow and then we can get into the goooooooooood stuff from there on

"So," I begin, having moved outside with this boy feeling hazy, warm, and just a bit nauseous. We're sat on a cobblestone wall around five feet in height a block or two down from the buzzing club we've both found ourselves disenchanted with as the long moments have passed and the blood alcohol level has begun to dilute. He's got his hands in the pockets of the jacket I've lent him, his own having been stolen, whereas my fingers are tightened around my mobile, prepared to dial any number he needs me to at the drop of a hat. "Are you from Manchester?"  
Dan shakes his head simply, gently tousling his curls with support from the gentle breeze coursing through a black velvet summer early, early morning. He's fallen quiet as he's sobered up, I've realized. Perhaps he's afraid I'll do something to him, or perhaps, more viably, he's afraid of the situation as a whole. Stranded in a new city with no money, no phone, no friends, at such a young age and in such a vulnerable position— it must be a bit hard to stomach, especially since it appears to be his first time doing something like this independently. When someone's first taste of adult freedom is this traumatizing, it's so wonder they're not up for excessive small talk.   
If he is stressed, though, which I don't doubt, maybe a conversation would be good for him.   
He realizes this as well. "Reading," he returns, pulling my sleeves over his hands as he crosses his arms over his chest. "But I'm planning to go to school up here."  
"Oh," I glance at my phone for the time— 2:10 AM— then note it strange that a taxi takes more than twenty minutes to get here. "What are you studying?"  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
I pause a moment, moving my hair from my eyes as I try to figure out whether he's being defensive or sarcastic.   
Not that it really matters.   
"Okay,"  
"Sorry," he sighs. "I'm just tired."  
"No," I peer down the street briefly. "It's fine, I know. I'm not sure what's going on."  
Dan looks at me in question. "In general? Or with the taxi?"  
"With the taxi," I assure him. "They usually don't take this long."  
"Of course they don't." He puts his head in his hands, gripping at his curls gently. "They're just going along with everything else that's gone so wonderfully tonight."  
Normally, I'd tell him not to be upset like I tell everyone else, but he fully has the right to be upset. In fact, I'd be worried if we weren't upset. "We can walk to where you're going if you want."   
He shakes his head. "It's too far away."  
"Well, where is it?"  
"The train station."  
Of course it is. "Dan," I look away as he looks up at me. "The trains don't run this late."  
He groans, rolling his eyes before covering them again. "Are you kidding?"  
"I wish I were."  
"Fuck," Dan drops his hands over dramatically. "That's great." Sarcasm drips from his syllables, his voice shaking slightly from the tears welling up in his eyes. I continue to stare at the pavement. "Really, that's fantastic, because I totally won't pass out in the street before they start and get attacked."  
I want to point out that he'd be getting attacked again were that to happen, but then decide it not to be the best, especially as he begins fully sobbing.  
Oh my god— how do I stop an eighteen year old boy from crying?  
"If you just need a place to stay for the night, I'm just down the road."  
"Oh," he brushes a few tears away with his fingertips. "You've already done-"  
"No," I argue, turning towards him. "I owe you at least an hour on my sofa for hitting you in the bathroom and calling a defective cab."  
He makes eye contact with me, but I'm too tipsy and awkward to keep it for very long. "You didn't mean to call a defective cab, did you?"  
I shake my head, looking back at him though it makes my chest flutter a bit. "I didn't mean to hit you, either, if that helps."  
This sad vision of a boy stays quiet for a good moment, sizing me up to make sure I'm not a serial killer. I don't think I come off as a serial killer, but then again, I'm not entirely sure how I would expect one to act.   
"I completely understand if you don't want to. I can give you money for a hotel room if you're not comfortable with it, but I thought I'd offer first."  
He stays quiet. "How far is 'just down the road', exactly?"  
"Literally four blocks, maybe five." I pull my mobile back out. "I can pull up a map if you want me to."  
"That's alright." He pushes my phone down gently. "Just promise it's not too much trouble?"  
I smile a bit. "Promise."  
"And promise not to murder me when we get there?"  
"Double promise."


	3. Chapter 3

The trek back to my flat is underwhelming to say the least. Both sobering up, we’ve lost our respective charisma and blatant sadness. Climbing the stairs, stumbling from sleepiness, not saying a word, I start to wonder if I was right in bringing him back to mine. Sitting on the wall, I drew out nebulas of possible conversation in my head. My mind overflowed with starters for new topics and pick-me-ups for when the sentences began to descend to an orchestra of nods, nervous laughs, and ‘okay’s, but now that I’m given the chance to talk to him, I can’t remember a single one, and even if I could remember them, I wouldn’t have the courage to start in on some mundane topic for fear of startling or upsetting him. His emotions are like a scale, and I’ve no idea what will tip it, which is why I kindly keep my mouth shut until we reach the last door on the left, top floor of this cloud-hindering apartment complex in the less expensive part of Manchester.   
“Here we are.” I nervously announce, forgetting that there’s no way he can walk past it at the end of the hall. The doorknob sticks a bit after it’s unlocked, which I’m sure only fuels his idea that I’m out to stab him and lock him in some musty attic where no one will think to look. Again, I intend only on giving him a sofa to sleep on and some ice for the swelling around his eyes until the trains start back up to take him home. He’s not buying into that, though, even after I get the door open and switch on the lights to reveal a perfectly average, bright one-bedroom apartment that opens to the kitchen and the living room, a small hallway between the two leading to my bedroom and the washroom which sit on either side. “The shower’s just down that way on the right.” I gesture to the hallway. “If you wanted to get all the blood and booze off that way, or you could just use the sink if that’s what you’re into.”  
This aubergine-splotched boy nods slightly and studies my golden-bathed house with an expression somewhere between fear and sadness. His sepia-toned curls have fully surfaced, and his correspondingly colored eyes have glazed over in a sort of hung over exhaustion I’m sure I mirror to an extent. “Thanks,” he mutters monotonously.  
I tell him that it’s hardly a problem.  
He doesn’t offer a response, just blankly stares into the kitchen, seemingly entranced by fake granite countertops and faded white cupboards above them. Dan doesn’t start down towards the hallway or make any attempts to pick the conversation back up—he just stands there, unmoving, immensely fixated on nothing in particular. There’s no response when I ask if he’s alright, and I take that as a cue to ready my mobile for when he inevitably collapses onto the linoleum. It was bound to happen from the start, and in all honesty, I should have just gotten him an ambulance in the bathroom instead of getting involved and believing that it would be alright, that he wouldn’t just fall out like all of the drunk, crying people I talk to do.   
That said, his knees do buckle after a few seconds.  
I turn him onto his side, call 999, and mourn the brief, less than friendship in the ten minutes it takes for paramedics to get to the door and strap him down. One of them turns to me as I’m holding the door to the apartment open and asks if I’m going with them.  
“No,” I return simply, shrugging a bit. “I don’t even know him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go. it's done, it's over, and now i can get to the gut-wrenching, life-ruining hurt/comfort i have planned for this account. stick around if you're down for that, but if you're just here for some light-hearted bants like this, let me know and i'll throw some more your way. friends? friends. thanks a million for clicking on this MESS.


End file.
